


Aching Inside

by easiIyamused



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Found Family, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Sad Peter Nureyev, all that good stuff, elon musk is mentioned, felt like i had to tag that, he's trying!!, i promise its so brief, juno is a 10/10 boyfriend, let peter have a good family im begging you, peter doesn't know what a vegetable is and at this point he's too afraid to ask, seriously though tw for disordered eating, these tags are a waking nightmare, this isn't canon compliant but it's not not canon compliant?, touch starved peter nureyev, you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:47:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24476719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/easiIyamused/pseuds/easiIyamused
Summary: 'Something about having to sit semi-still and eat for an allotted period of time really yucks his yum. So normally, he just doesn’t. Who’s going to tell him not to?But out here in the stratosphere, someone is hell-bent on making him sit down and eat dinner every night with his ‘family’. The someone in question is Buddy, and Peter is still in total awe of her, so he's going to give it the old college try. In theory.'huge tw for disordered eating, contamination anxiety, body image issues and general awful things
Relationships: Buddy Aurinko & Peter Nureyev, Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel, peter nureyev/the mortifying ordeal of being known
Comments: 26
Kudos: 198





	Aching Inside

Peter Nureyev has never had a ‘family dinner’, but from what he’s gathered he’s not missing out on much. Many an heiress has complained to him about how stuffy and grim they are. Mag always spoke about them with disdain, tutted at the families they’d see eating together through the bay windows of more upmarket Brahmese homes. “Anyone who’s got the time to be doing that shit can’t be doing anything meaningful with their life, huh?” 

Peter had nodded. Called it a stupid, bourgeois way to spend an evening. Pretended not to be taken in by the warm orange light flooding out of the dining rooms. The tables piled high with food. The families, beaming at each other. 

He’s really just not interested. He eats when he wants. Well, actually, when he needs to. He can’t cook, and the amount of spoiled food he had to eat as child and poisonings he’s had to preempt has made him a little… wary. Of food. That’s normal, isn’t it? He just doesn’t want to take chances. The first rule of thieving is to never take chances, after all. Or maybe it’s to always take chances. Whatever. 

So for most of the time, Peter doesn’t eat until he feels lightheaded, then eats what he can find (preferably something long-life or some flatbread) until the ache goes away. Then rinse and repeat. He rarely sits down. Something about having to sit semi-still for an allotted period really yucks his yum. In a profound way. So he just doesn’t. Who’s going to tell him not to? 

But out in the stratosphere, someone is hell bent on making him sit down and eat dinner every night with his ‘family’. The someone in question is Buddy, and Peter is still in total awe of her, so he sets out to give it the old college try. In theory.

His first evening on board they have some of roasted vegetable thing with yellow rice. Trying to decipher what the vegetables are is a welcome distraction from Juno, who is sitting across from Peter, making small talk and looking so at home and calm and beautiful- Is that a carrot? Are carrots orange? He investigates. It’s sweet and mushy and wet and Peter nearly gags. He can’t spit it out. He tries to think about how Peter Ransom feels about carrots. He comes to the solemn realisation that Peter Ransom is just Peter Nureyev with a metaphorical (sometimes physical) fancy hat on. He forces himself to swallow. He looks up at the clock on the wall. It’s only been two minutes. _Give me strength, _he thinks.__

____

____

After a half hour, Peter has managed to eat at least a quarter of the rice and a few of the least offensive vegetables. He’s bumping his leg. He knows it’s annoying, but he can’t stop. He needs to get up. Everyone else is done, just sitting around talking. Rita is telling a story, eyes sparkling behind her glasses. Is this what people do at dinner? Sit and tell stories after? For how long? No one’s told him anything. It could be hours. Peter’s been on long lunches and suppers and dinner dates and they are so varied in length, but at least there was a purpose to them. He got something out of them. This is too much. He’s now bumping his leg so much that it’s audible. Rita finishes her story. Peter offers to clean up. Puts his plate at the bottom of the pile, hopes that no one can see what he has and hasn’t eaten. Loads everything into the dishwasher and then high tails it out of there. Doesn’t notice Buddy, staring after him.

…

The fifth night, it’s burgers and fries. This seems to be exciting for everyone except Peter. He stares at the burger on his plate like it might pull a knife on him. Takes the top off it. Looks at the surface of the meat. It’s glistening. Fat and oil. The fries are covered in it, too. He really gags, this time. Tries to disguise it as a cough. Everyone is looking at him. Jet asks if he’s choking. Peter says something along the lines of no but he could if Jet wanted him to. Everyone groans. Vespa flicks his temple with her index finger. It’s not an unaffectionate gesture. Peter resumes his staring match with the food. 

He can’t eat it. He can’t sit there. Today was stressful and he needs to be alone, he needs to be silent he needs to be someone who isn’t him at all. The shadow he gets to be when he’s finally by himself. He can’t put that stuff in his body. He will get fat or sick if he does and he can’t, can’t do that. He’s bumping his leg and suddenly is aware that he’s short of breath-

“Peter, are you alright?” Buddy’s voice is clipped and authoritative as usual. With maybe a little softness added in. Peter wants to say something clever, something that will get him out of this. Nothing springs to mind. He doesn’t think he can speak. He takes a deep breath,  
“Quite. Captain, may I be excused? I’m- not hungry.”  
“How can you not be hungry? You didn’t have lunch or breakfast!” Juno interjects. Why does Juno care what he has or hasn’t-  
“Who asked for your input, Steel? Captain’s talking to Ransom, nothing to do with you.” Vespa hisses. Peter thanks her mentally. Juno’s brow furrows,  
“Uh, I’m sitting here too, I’m part of the family, the table is round, we all get a say, I don’t see why you-” They’re up in each other’s faces before Juno can finish his sentence. Peter can’t even prevail to gaze at Juno getting all aggravated. His legs and hands are twitching. 

Buddy slams her glass down on the table. Peter nearly jumps out of his skin. Juno and Vespa sit back down. The captain inhales and fixes them all with an even, vaguely disappointed look.  
“I’m not going to waste my breath reprimanding you two, alright?” Both of the two in question nod and mumble apologies. Buddy turns her gaze back to Peter, “Ransom, this is important bonding time for us all. I stated clearly that I expect you to be here, to eat and to join in.” Peter grits his teeth. “Is there something wrong with your food?” She’s talking to him like he’s a picky child. He shakes his head, not wanting to say something he’ll regret. “Then you can sit and talk and eat when you feel hungry.”

“No.”  
“Excuse me?” You could hear a pin drop. Vespa is gripping the hilt of a butter knife. Jet is pinching the bridge of his nose. Rita and Juno are looking back and forth between Peter and Buddy and each other, both still chewing. Peter becomes aware that he’s stood up out of his chair. When he speaks his voice is much higher than he’d like,  
“I said no.” His hands are shaking. There’s a lump in his throat. He feels small and stupid and ugly. He stomps out of the kitchen.

In the cabin he can finally leave himself. He sits on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, for what feels like forever. Rides out the tremors. Walks to the dresser on shaky legs. Takes off his already smudged makeup. Underneath his skin is smooth and pink from over washing and a little pockmarked under the right corner of his mouth. His hands are quivering too much for him to do any other skincare effectively, so he changes into green satin sleeping shorts and a black sweater before lowering himself onto the floor and sitting with his knees to his chest, left hand on his forehead and right over his heart. He’s always sat like that when things get too much. It used to drive Mag nuts. _Sit up properly. You look like a meshugener. Tell me how you can ever be anonymous when you insist on making things so hard for yourself. _Mag is long dead. Peter sits how he likes, does what he likes.__

__He’s not sure how long he stays on the floor. No sunset in space. At one point he thinks he hears heavy steps drawing toward his door. Not heavy enough to be Jet, not light enough to be someone with a criminal background, not chaotic enough to be Rita- He’s probably hearing things. He’s sure he doesn’t hear a hand on the door, resting there for a second before probably thinking twice and walking away again. Peter is disappointed in spite of himself. He can’t shake the memory of calloused hands touching his face so carefully, of someone he loves calling him beautiful. He wants to be touched like that now. Wants to feel like less of a mess. Wants to be whole._ _

__Maybe an hour later there’s a real knock on the door. A soft, mid-Atlantic voice asking to come in. Peter responds in the affirmative, careful to keep his voice level. He hears the door slide open. Tries to arrange himself in a less _meshuge _pose on the floor.___ _

____Buddy sits down beside him. She’s wearing long black satin pajamas, either real vintage Chanel or a very convincing knockoff, which Peter has been coveting since he met her. Her hair is still sprayed into place. She smells like patchouli and expensive cleanser. He can’t bring himself to look her in the eye._ _ _ _

____“How are you feeling, darling?” Her voice is husky and familiar. The pet name lights something up in Peter’s brain.  
“Better, thank you. I sincerely apologise for my tone earlier, I don’t know-”  
“-Come on, Pete. You’ve met my wife. I know what someone getting triggered looks like.”  
“-oh.”  
“I also know what an eating problem looks like. I was a teenage girl once, hard as that might be for you to imagine.” Peter can almost feel her rueful smile, radiating over to him.  
“With all due respect, Captain, I don’t think I have an eating problem. I just- don’t like food very much.” This is not Peter Ransom’s voice. There’s no edge to it. This is all Nureyev, who at his core feels like a wounded animal these days. Always on edge. Preempting the next attack._ _ _ _

____Buddy nods solemnly. Lifts a hand and cards it through Peter’s hair. His whole body prickles, but not in a bad way. He shuts his eyes and leans into the touch, lets her smooth his hair out, tuck it behind his ears, rest her hand on his shoulder. It’s the most anyone’s touched Peter in two years. He’s too tired to resist it. Mag would call him an idiot for trusting someone so soon, so easily. Although, Mag might have felt differently if he knew it was Buddy Arinko. When Peter was thirteen they’d broken into a Kinshasan summer house to watch a stream of her being chased by some Martian cops after a heist. They’d whooped and jumped up and down as she threw them off at the last second and disappeared into the horizon. It had been such a good day._ _ _ _

____He finally manages to meet her eye. He wants to thank her, but he’s worried that his voice will be too ragged, too full of need and uncertainty. Thankfully he’s cut off by the sound of his own stomach. Like there’s an animal inside him, growling. Knawing at nothing. He wasn’t even aware of how hungry he’s gotten. It’s been at least a day and a half. Buddy clicks her teeth in way that’s despairing, but not unkind. She stands- Peter mourns the loss of contact with his shoulder- walks briskly across the room and returns with a little tray._ _ _ _

____On it sit two dry bowls of cereal, two spoons, and a jug of milk. Buddy fixes herself a bowl, then looks over at him expectantly. “I triple checked the milk. It doesn’t go bad for another six days.” Buddy’s tone is pointed, but not patronising. Peter picks up a bowl and stares at it. It’s brown cereal with little bits-  
“It’s got raisins.” He can feel his lip curling up, the bile in his throat. Buddy takes a deep breath,  
“Peter, if you sit with me and eat this bowl of cereal, raisins, and all, we can talk about the extent of your involvement in family meals. How does that sound?” Peter takes a bite in response. The milk is cold, the cereal bland, the raisins not as offensive as he expected. He thinks he hears Buddy exhale in relief, but that might just be fiction. _ _ _ _

____Once the bowl is empty, Peter can think much more clearly. This shouldn’t come as such a surprise. He leans back against the bed and sighs contentedly. Buddy puts her hand over his and squeezes gently._ _ _ _

____…_ _ _ _

____The rules of family meals on the Carte Blanche are altered slightly after that night. They all sit down together around seven o’clock, all have a plate in front of them. For the first ten minutes, Peter sits and talks and drinks a tea or a soda or something stronger while pushing his food around his plate. His food, which isn’t quite the same as everyone else’s. Vespa made him make a big list of the acceptable and unacceptable (a 5:95 ratio), took his measurements, and made him a meal plan. Lots of carbs, lots of hidden veg. So many smoothies and juices, which after a fashion and an exploded blender, Peter can make himself. After the allotted time he gets up, puts his food back into the oven to keep it warm, thanks whoever cooked and retires to his cabin. Later, Buddy comes and sits with him and eats a snack or has a drink while Peter eats his food on the floor by his bed. When Buddy can’t, Rita does. And after their mission and Big Talk, Juno does._ _ _ _

____It gets easier once things with Juno are okay again. Because of course, it does. Juno always sits next to him at dinner, holds his hand under the table, picks fights with Vespa when Peter needs to leave the table quickly and unnoticed, leaves with him when things get really bad. Gradually, Peter starts staying for longer and longer. Fifteen minutes becomes twenty, twenty to half an hour. On the first day that Peter manages to stay until everyone except him has finished all their food, Buddy walks over to him as he’s washing up and kisses him on the temple. Firm and proud. Peter almost feels the animal inside him purr._ _ _ _

____…_ _ _ _

____There are still bad days, though. During the two weeks they spend circling the outer rim, circling Brahma, Peter barely leaves Juno’s cabin. When Juno’s on the ship, Peter is attached to him like a limpet, unnaturally quiet, only eating in the cabin again. Juno tells Buddy in confidence that when Peter breathes in, he can count his ribs. Buddy feels profoundly uneasy._ _ _ _

____When Juno goes planetside with Jet for supplies, staying overnight to gather intel, Peter won’t even drink a soda. He stays in the cabin, doing his dance stretches until he’s too dizzy to carry on. Vespa ends up giving him the choice of either a nutribar and drink every four hours or a tube down the neck. He chugs the drink and scarfs down the bar. Vespa sits with him until the panic and nausea and urges to engage in very stupid behavior pass._ _ _ _

_____The night that they pass out of the outer rim, Peter sits on the medbay cot, breaking little pieces off of his nutribar nightcap and chasing them with the drink. Buddy is filing her nails. Peter takes a swig of the drink, grimaces and looks over at her,  
“Captain?”  
“Yes, dear?”  
“I feel like I may have- if you’ll excuse my language- fucked it all up.” He’s been less verbose than usual in the last two weeks. Buddy shakes her head,  
“You haven’t, Pete. I promise. No one gets off that lightly, unfortunately, but you’ll get back on the wagon. Look at the rest of the crew, they’ve had their struggles, but they’re out the other side now. You’ll get there.” Peter nods in response, but there’s still something sad in his eyes. He downs the rest of the drink right there and offers Buddy an appreciative smile._ _ _

____…_ _ _ _

____It finally happens nine months into their voyage. They’re having mac and cheese with (previously unacceptable) leeks and salad. Peter’s sitting as he always does, holding Juno’s right hand and twirling his fork like it’s a sparring knife. They’re talking about streams. Vespa’s advocating for an objectively trashy and heinous reality show, Jet and Rita are going full conspiracy theory, Juno looks deeply confused and Peter is talking about how vintage streams like Pose are where it’s at. Buddy is trying to remain impartial and not laugh too much at how defensive Jet is of the theory that Elon Musk XVIII is an automaton. She’s holding back a wheezing shout of laughter when her gaze falls on Peter._ _ _ _

____He’s stopped making pronouncements about how they’re all philistines who wouldn’t know what culture was if it stuck them up the something or other and is quietly eating his noodles. Actually eating, taking proper forkfuls. Slowly but surely. Everyone else would have been done twenty minutes ago if the conversation hadn’t got so heated. Buddy kicks Vespa who kicks Juno who looks to his left and then over at Buddy. His eye has gone a little red. Buddy can’t tell if it’s laughter or tears. In unison, they pick up their forks and eat, matching Peter’s pace and watching the ridiculous scene in front of them unfold._ _ _ _

____Half an hour later, Peter puts his fork down. All that’s left on his plate is some forlorn-looking tomato. He looks down at his plate, tilts his head to one side, allows himself a brief, self-satisfied smirk, and then gets back into the debate. Buddy gets up to ‘fill up her glass’, turns toward the sink, takes a deep breath, and tries not to shout or cry or jump up and down._ _ _ _

____After they’ve cleaned up, they sit in the Rec Room and watch Vespa’s stream, drinking heavily. Peter is perched on a stool with Rita in front of him. He’s braiding her hair into two rows, working quickly and carefully, a pensive little smile on his lips. He smiles a lot more these days, and when he does it’s unabashed. He just looks better generally, too. His eyes are brighter and his ribs are no longer visible when he stretches. There’s a hot, gooey feeling in Buddy’s chest. She doesn’t mind so much. Vespa pokes her in the arm from where she’s lying in Buddy’s lap on the couch. Buddy looks down at her wife, all brown eyes and sharp grin._ _ _ _

____“Going soft, Bud?” It’s not said with malice. Buddy laughs quietly,  
“Maybe a little.”_ _ _ _

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. hello thank you for reading! 
> 
> 2\. buddy: my sneaky little rat son now <3 
> 
> 3\. peter: my sneaky badass mom now <3
> 
> 4\. this is partly inspired by a member of my family who had some nasty experiences which left her forever afraid to sit at the table with other people and eat meals at certain times. i love you, you're always in my thoughts.
> 
> 5\. 'you do not have to be good. you do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. you only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. tell me about despair, yours, and i will tell you mine.' -wild geese by mary oliver
> 
> 6\. 'i tried to eat like your girlfriend, just tea, in the night i'd wake up too hungry to sleep. so lying awake i, would follow the aching inside, i would find, it's for you won't be mine.' - square by mitski
> 
> 7\. last week in therapy we talked about how i don't hate my body for the first time in over a decade. how i'm trying to forgive myself for the way i treated it. she told me i should take a whole bottle of champagne up to my bedroom and drink it alone. that i should celebrate how far i've come. and that was pretty cool.
> 
> 8\. i hope you've got things to celebrate today. not to be gay, but i do.
> 
> 9\. thanks for reading again lol <3
> 
> 9a. noodle boy eats noodles. cannibalism   
> b. I got no beta reader so their might be some fuck shit in here... am sorry   
> c. comments r good for the soul


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